innocence as the first casualty
by ishvaras
Summary: Crossposted from ao3 under anjalikaastras. The Hindu servants and how, like Shiva's serpents, their lives intertwined with their desires.
1. the words we did not say

There are things that must be said, when their paths cross not as the Lostbelt King of India and his general but rather as a simple Archer who is son of the deva-king, and as a man ravaged by his violation of chivalry given a new lease on life, considered worthy now of the Sudarshana that slices the air.

"Drona."

When they meet one late night in the cafeteria, Ashwatthama with a glass of…something Arjuna can't quite see in his hands and Arjuna holding on to a cup of tea, it is not surprising. Destiny has a way of tying people together, no matter how fervently they try to avoid each other.

It falls to Arjuna to speak first — Ashwatthama stews in hatred that chokes him each time he sees the Pandava's visage. In him he sees the boy whom his father loved dearer than Ashwatthama himself. In him he sees the boy who paid the gurudakshina that Karna or Duryodhana could not. In him he sees someone who would have been loved more deeply than Ashwatthama had he been born to Drona —

— and in him, he sees also the man who abetted the lie that killed his father.

"I am sorry. Dhrishtadyumna and Yudhisthira...they were cruel to him." Not much else needs to be said, and Ashwatthama can only swallow around the lump in his throat.

He had begged the Throne to mayhaps find his father, and found only his father's favourite.

But this too, must be karma. And it is only right to return the words, as much as they seem to stick in his throat and cry _don't you remember your father and Duryodhana, you fool ?_

"...I don't apologise for Dhrishtadyumna's death. Damn bastard deserved what he got — swarga ain't for men like him." is what he says at last, and Arjuna inclines his head in understanding. Bhima would not do so for his killing of Duryodhana. Nor would Arjuna himself apologise for Karna's killing. That is simply the way war goes, and each of them has accumulated their own _paapa_.

"But…The rest of the men in that camp. I swear — I swear I reserved the death of sacrifices for Drupada's son alone. Yer children didn't suffer. Srutakarma—"

"Do not use his name so freely." Suddenly Arjuna is gritted teeth and sharpness and stinging pain, and Ashwatthama thinks he sees what Jayadratha probably witnessed on the fourteenth day — the Gandiva's wielder, who walks alongside death and destruction. He sees Indra's prowess crystallised into a man who gained the favour of the Trimurti as well, who obtained the eternal love of Vasudev Krishna.

But yet another small part of him sees a father who has lost his sons to war. He wants to bite back, _my father and my friends were lost to it as well_ — but if he had sided not with friends but with adharma, could the outcome have been averted ? If he had told his father to leave the war, not to fight by virtue of his caste ?

— Too many ifs and maybes, but not enough to ignore that ultimately, the two of them have chosen their own paths, and that their families and friends have died around them for it.

Arjuna pauses as his outburst concludes, the wildness so similar to the storm being reined in once more, and then he exhales, measured, the stream of air taking some of the rage felt for it. Ashwatthama has paid for it, he reminds himself. It would be petty and wrong for a hero and an upholder of dharma to hold grudges.

And yet.

"I do not know if I can forgive you for those deaths."

"The feelin's mutual." Some tension in the air gives, though it remains so thick that Asi might have struggled to slice it. Some things cannot be forgiven — not even in a second life.

"But…we are here as Servants of our Master, Fujimaru." Arjuna leans against the wall and brings the cup of tea to his lips. "As such, those grudges…I will put them aside for the moment."

_A crescent arrow boring into white flesh, a bowstring snapping in one's hands, a chariot wheel that ended lives._

"…Whatever." Ashwatthama brusquely props the chakra up on his back with one hand, the action allowing Arjuna to glimpse the liquid in his cup. White, frothy —

It gets a chuckle out of the awarded hero.

"Your favourite drink is still milk ?"

"'Course it is. Dad went through a lot of crap from that bastard Drupada to get it for me. Would've been dumb to just decide I didn't like it."

"Best you drink up, then." A smile twitches the corners of Arjuna's lips, and Ashwatthama tenses. That smile is something like a — no —

"After all, we can't have you getting enraged from a calcium deficiency."

"Why you little—!"

The drinks are forgotten, hastily put down (Arjuna) or slammed (Ashwatthama) on a nearby table as one raises the wheel above his head to attack the other, yelling. Their laughter, one from a hero raised to be proper, the other from a man cursed by the gods themselves, is almost alien in this environment. War had sapped from them much of the humour in their human lives — as Servants, such a mundane event was something they both saw beauty in.

And perhaps, even though neither will admit it…

This mock-anger, this playing, as if both were children — to them, something so ordinary has become an unrepeatable memory of quieter, happier days in that ashram in Hastinapura.


	2. in kinder light

"Servant, Saber. True Name..."

The man whom the ritual's summoned from the Throne is well into old age and stern-faced, yet his eyes cage youthful vigour. Scrutinising Ritsuka with the gaze of a particularly strict teacher, he seems to finally deem the magus before him acceptable to pledge his service to.

"...You may call me Drona. May this old Brahmin's sword offer some help."

Bharadvaj's son and Brhaspati's (or some say Brahma's) avatar is a name that the heroes of the Mahabharata hold with immense respect, and thus it's no surprise that most of them rush to greet him, to touch his feet and ask for blessing.

Arjuna's Archer self regards him with a stiff, too-formal respect, neither forgiving nor forgetting the incident with the chakravyuha. Nevertheless, an observer might see the corners of his mouth quirk up involuntarily when Drona congratulates him on his incredible feats and lauds praise upon the youth for all he's done.

(He can let himself have this moment of joy, at least.)

In contrast, his Alter makes little attempt to disguise the longing for one of the most impactful father figures in his life. His dash forwards is one filled with joy at seeing the teacher, and soon enough Drona's callused hand strokes the Alter's head as if this other Arjuna is his own son. Karna detects a strange sense that teeters on desperation when Alter reaches for and grabs his hand, like a lost child rediscovering their parents.

He can understand. When alive, he had lived each day knowing deep in his heart that he was not the birth son of Radha — and though his mother has lavished love upon him, there was a miniscule disconnect, a crack between them that such care could not fill. To have finally learnt the truth of his heritage as Surya's son had vanished the gap from his mind.

Speaking of sons, though —

When word reaches Ashwatthama's ears, his reaction is every bit the opposite of what Arjuna expects.

"Did ya tell him I was here ?" His yellow eyes are wild, panicked.

Pandu's third son shakes his head, and Ashwatthama deflates in visible relief. "Don't tell 'im."

"Why ? I do not doubt he would be pleased —"

The door to the Archer's room closes in his face, and Arjuna exhales.

"How odd."

When one's father is famed enough to end up in the Throne, wouldn't you want to greet them, smile with them, reestablish the connection you had in your life ? He is sure that if Pandu or Indra appeared, he would have rushed to touch his feet and embrace his father. It is the least he could do to a man snatched away before Arjuna could ever know him.

But this is what Ashwatthama wants, and as a kshatriya, at the very least Arjuna does not mind leaving him be.

"Has the feared warrior, scourge of the battlefields and the Pandavas, taken to hiding like a frightened animal when things become remotely unfavourable for him ?"

Karna is much less forgiving and understanding than their Master and other Servants are when he's tasked with taking food for the unruly Archer, who hasn't vacated his room in days. The man's teeth and tongue are spears, arrows and swords, and he uses them with wild abandon as to whoever is hurt by them. His piercing, blunt honesty and transparency is something Ashwatthama can respect about that sutaputra, irregardless of how he is at other times — namely, Duryodhana's bootlicker.

"Shut yer mouth." Grumbling, he takes the curry and rice from Karna's hands and the carton of milk. He's mulled over his thoughts, over his words, for days, wondering how best to show his face to his own father. What will his first words be — what if he declares himself Drona's son, only for Drona to hide his face in shame at the knowledge granted to him by the Throne that his son became a child killer ?

"Hiding from him will do nothing." Karna states the obvious, before going into his usual tactic — a personal attack, only it's two-pronged on both of Bharadvaj's descendants. "He too launched Brahmastras at common soldiers who had never seen an astra before. He too killed Abhimanyu—"

—Ashwatthama winces at the name and the memories of the bloody fourteenth day it brought—

"—and disregarded the rules of war. If anything, he should not judge you for what you have done."

"Parikshit."

The name makes Karna quirk an eye. He probably knows of that boy, but chooses to allow Ashwatthama to speak of it.

"A Brahmastra wouldn't cut it, so I shot a Brahmashirsha astra into Abhimanyu's wife's womb. Cursed the world to be without Pandavas. Then that damn Krishna cursed me back, had Arjuna tear the gem from my head."

As a matter of fact, it still feels odd to feel the mani gem on his head and not a gaping pus-and-blood filled hole.

"Killing an unborn child. That is definitely against dharma. But so were many things we did during that war — Kauravas and Pandavas both. Though if Drona can love Arjuna after he watched on as he was lied to and killed, I do not see why your crime should suddenly remove your relationship with him."

"It's not the same !" "Arjuna also attempted to kill you and his brother in law, and made a fool of him in Jayadratha's killing. Yet, Drona does not begrudge him for it. As for you — did he not do penance for months to ensure his son possessed Shiva's own valiance ?" Karna stands up and turns to leave.

"Do not forget, Rudra avatara — Arjuna is only a favoured sishya. You are his son."

Two in the morning is when he finally leaves his room to get more milk, knowing his father sleeps like a log, and then promptly wonders which deva out there still hates him (is it Krishna ? Damn Yadava) after he runs into the last person he wants to see.

Arjuna's Alter self has a metal spoon in a cup of chocolate ice cream and a look on his face that suggests he saw this meeting coming a long time ago. Oh, and from his tail swings the milk carton.

Is it _empty _?!

Damn Clairvoyance.

He's about to turn his back and return to his room when Arjuna Alter's voice pierces the silence.

"Archer."

"Can't ya change back to the original Arjuna or sumthin' ? !"

"At the moment, full reclaimation of humanity is impossible." One spoonful of the sweet treat enters his mouth. "This is the closest I am able to get to the idea of "Arjuna, the human", even with Ascension taken into consideration."

"Just say ya can't. So much for an omnipotent god."

"I am not the perfect god the other version of 'me' was in that Lostbelt. Being unable to return to my former state…that is as much a proof that I, Arjuna, am human, as it is proof that a god can never regress into one."

"Spare me th' philosophical crap and get to th' point. You ain't making sense ramblin' like that, ya know."

"As my Archer self says, is your constant irritation's cause a deficiency in calcium ? But you seem tall enough —"

_Why is it always calcium deficiency ?!_

Ashwatthama loses patience and swings the chakra at him. Arjuna Alter (can he just call him Godjuna for the convenience ?) serenely dodges out of the way, even having the cheek to consume more of his ice cream in the process. The carton, held by the prehensile extension, is flung into the trashcan, confirming one of Ashwatthama's greatest fears.

Also confirming that Arjuna Alter is a damn showoff.

"Why're you even up here ?" "Ah, Gudako asked me to try out this treat she called 'ice cream'. Something about thinking I would look…'cute' while eating it ? Irrespective of my appearance when eating, it is not an unwelcome flavour…Krishna would appreciate the milk in it."

The way he talks about Vishnu's avatar is certain. There are no maybes, perhapses or mights. It is the surety that comes with sharing your soul with another. Ashwatthama almost wishes he had someone who would know exactly the depths of his heart in that situation — they might know what to do with the issue regarding his father.

But he's no one born of the divine, discounting his Rudra avatar. He's only human.

"Yes, you are." Godjuna speaks as if he could read Ashwatthama's mind (he probably can, what with being a mishmash of an entire pantheon of divinities), a melancholic smile overcoming his features. He looks so much like a younger Arjuna it unnerves Ashwatthama.

"You are human. And just like 'myself', you too are a hero."

"I killed them." The Violation of Chivalry skill is as much a source of power as it is a brand on his soul that shamefully speaks of his disgusting deed, like Krishna's three-thousand-year curse that had left festering sores all over his body. It and what it signifies flashes back in his memories whenever he sees Arjuna — though it is more a brutal reminder than a source of regret. Srutakarma's neck broke _so easily_ under his rough grip — the boy had never thought a thing had happened until Yama noosed his soul. At first he wonders how he could have so willingly murdered the sons of the same boys he trained with at the ashram, and then he thinks of Duryodhana's crushed thighs, his father's headless body, Hastinapur's utterly annihilated army, and the regret vanishes like smoke blown away.

"In a manner synonymous with adharma. Perhaps, as a human, that hero will not forgive you. But death of the physical body is not death of the soul. They returned to members of the gods in Devaloka when their time was up, that is all." Godjuna's detached tone is a far cry from the quiet, sheepish child he, or rather the man the gods employ as vessel, used to be. "Grudges are not welcome or needed in Svarga. At least, this is what the god within me knows."

Is this an odd form of forgiveness from Arjuna (albeit, his divine self) ? Whatever. He'll take it — it's the closest he might ever get from the archer of the Pandavas.

"I cannot say what your father might think. He may reject you. He may accept you. He may disown you. Yet, akarma is not a wise choice." Akarma — he means inaction, though in a smaller sense: a son fearing his father's disapproval. It is no secret that Ashwatthama lives and breathes for his father and friends. For the former to despise him is something he fears he could never take, never live with.

"Go. You cannot live your whole life here with neither of you knowing each other exists. And your father cares for you still. I, Arjuna, am sure of it." Godjuna's wistful smile makes Ashwatthama wonder if there is someone he too wishes were here with him, yet fears being a disappointment to. They are not quite different, something inside him whispers: both of them twisted by their own grief into something inhuman and alien from those that knew them as they once were.

"Don't you know ?" He sighs. The ice cream cup he's eating from has been finished and quickly discarded into the trash can. Now, the god hovers high up with knees drawn to his chest, looking for all the world like a simple…child.

Ashwatthama thinks then of fire-births and lotus perfume, a dark complexion that entranced kshatriyas from all corners of the continent, and a revolving fish reflected in oil. "It's her."

He finds Arjuna training by himself in the shooting range, and hesitantly the words spill from his lips.

"Can you bring him over ta my room or somethin' ? I…I want ta meet him."

The door creaks open and Ashwatthama swallows.

"Is it a new astra you want me to see, Arjuna ? Or a bow—"

His father doesn't finish that sentence before it opens, heads turn, and Ashwatthama stands before him, head bowed. Fear seizes every inch of his body, and everything he wants to say cannot find purchase on his tongue. Regret flashes through his mind, and he longs to close the door and return to the safety of his room. His fingers twine and twitch nervously, and he dares not look up to know if what lies in those eyes is a father's love or a father's shame.

But then all of that is erased away by white — the white of Drona-his father's robes, the white that replaces the noise screaming curses in his mind, the white that is tranquil and peaceful and warm.

His father's arms are around him without regard for the curses he's accumulated, without regard for the murderer that his own son became. The sight that quickly comes to him in his mind's eye is a father is simply hugging his son, openly weeping with barely concealed happiness. Drona forgoes the custom of letting Ashwatthama touch his feet first — that alone proves to Ashwatthama just how happy his father is that the death he thought Shiva's avatar suffered did not come to pass, or rather, just how happy Bharadvaj's son is that they were able to meet again.

His sins may never be forgotten or forgiven (such words cannot be taken lightly when the offence in question has taken lives that can never be remade), but like most of those in Chaldea, Ashwatthama comes to wonder if even one cursed to become a blood-soaked, diseased immortal can learn to live as something greater than his own past.

And for the moment, he allows himself to embrace his father, the constant rage bubbling within him soothed if only for a moment ; allows himself to soak in the joy of their reunion.

"My son," Drona's voice is between sobs and gasps of joy. "My son."

"Appa." Ashwatthama's next words are inaudible to anyone else but his own father. "'M back."


End file.
